Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“But you’ll have to climb the stairs,” Laurel said. “That won’t be good for your hip. I have a better idea.”

She led him back downstairs and into the kitchen. “Build a wall on this end of the kitchen to enclose the keeping room. It has a window. It would easily convert into a bedroom.”

He scowled. “Where’d you get that notion?”

“From you. You shouldn’t have lied about dividing one room into two for a family from Waco.”

He swore under his breath, but Laurel could tell that the idea appealed to him. The new room would give him access to the rest of the house without having to use the stairs. The back door leading from the kitchen to the outside would also enable him to come and go freely.

She pointed that out to him, then stood by waiting hopefully as he mulled it over. For an eternity. “If it’s a matter of money—”

“It ain’t.”

“I plan to pitch in.”

“I told you, I ain’t destitute.”

“I still have my money.”

“Keep it. I owe you this.”

“How so?”

“It was my boy who skipped out on you.”

Whenever the subject of money came up, they argued, and Irv was cranky for days after. She supposed it was a blow to his pride for her to question him about finances.

But she suspected his obstinance on the matter went deeper than that. The guilt he felt over leaving Derby in an orphanage weighed even more heavily on him since the suicide. It was too late for him to make restitution to his son. Instead, he had dedicated himself to taking care of Pearl and her.

She was strongly opposed to the idea of being accountable or indebted to anyone, even to her well-meaning father-in-law, but she didn’t want to scotch renting the house by quarreling with him now. “When can we move in?”

He hooked his thumbs under his suspenders and ran them up and down as he took a slow look around.

“Well?” Laurel said.

“I’m taking stock.”

“You’re stalling.”

“We don’t have any furniture.”

“We don’t have any now!” she exclaimed, causing Pearl to stir. “Why are you so opposed to this, Irv?”

“I ain’t.”

“Good. We’ll move in tomorrow.”

Before he could say anything further, she turned on her heel and left through the front door. By the time he had followed, locked the door, and returned the key to its hiding place, she was in the car—in the driver’s seat.

He hobbled around to the passenger side and opened the door. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Pearl’s asleep. You can hold her while I drive.”

“You need a lot more practice.”

“I’ll have five miles’ worth after driving home. Now get in.”





Fourteen



Thatcher was confined to the jail cell throughout the day, although after deputies returned, he was allowed two visits to the lavatory. Harold grudgingly provided him with a bar of soap and a towel so he was able to wash up.

He heard people entering and leaving the building where briefings were held in the main room, but for most of the day the door at the end of the hall had remained closed, so he was unable to hear everything that was being said.

The telephone rang frequently. He supposed updates on the search for Mrs. Driscoll were being called in to Sheriff Amos, but Thatcher didn’t sense a thunderbolt from any of the incoming information.

Darkness had fallen and the hubbub in the office had died down before Sheriff Amos came through the door. Thatcher hadn’t seen him since their conversation that morning.

Apparent to Thatcher immediately was that the stressful day had taken a toll. Bill Amos probably had twenty-five years on Thatcher, but for a man of his age, he was fit. Tonight, however, he looked like he was under a lot of strain and weary to the bone.

Thatcher got up from the bunk and met him at the bars. “Any news?”

“We’ll get to it.” He hefted a lidded enamel pot by its wire handle. “Hungry?”

“I could do with something.”

“Chicken and dumplings.” He unlocked the cell and passed Thatcher the pot. “Take it by the handle. It’s hot.”

Thatcher took the pot, lifted the lid, and sniffed. “From the café?”

“One of Martin’s specialities.” He took a spoon and napkin from his shirt pocket and passed them through the bars. “Don’t dig an escape tunnel with the spoon.”

He said it with a smile that Thatcher returned. He carried the pot over to the bunk, where he set it down carefully so not to spill. The sheriff didn’t withdraw, but stood just beyond the bars, staring at nothing, thoughtfully smoothing his mustache. Thatcher went back over and waited him out until he was ready to reveal the cause of his furrowed brow.

He began by saying, “There’s news only about where Mrs. Driscoll isn’t. Nothing about where she is. None of her kin has seen or heard from her. Her uncle and aunt drove up from New Braunfels. They took over for Scotty, staying with Dr. Driscoll.”

“How’s he doing?”

“At wits’ end. Several times he tried to leave his house and join the search. Wrestled with Scotty and the uncle when they stopped him. Last I heard, they’d persuaded him to take a sleeping draught.”